"And we decided, Riego, that one ought to think out carefully which country was really the better, and be true to that, because there is a higher duty than that to party or country, and that is—to the principles of justice and freedom."
Riego's head sank lower. The Beautiful One took one of his brown hands into her own.
"And we said"—was she looking into the dark heart of him?—"that whichever way one chose, one should choose openly. Now this little brown hand could never——"
But the little brown hand was snatched away, and with a great sob the child fled into the woods.
When at last that night Riego did fall asleep he dreamed that his beautiful America came to him with her white arms held out in appeal, and that he slipped a dagger out of his bosom and stabbed her to the heart.
He started, awake, and sat up. It was black dark.
Had Alva struck already? Or was there yet time?
Ten feet away was Pascual's cot—he must not wake Pascual! As still as death he slipped out of his bed, pulled on his overalls that he had hung near, and crept out into the moonless night.
Riego could not think—it was all so desperate! He could only respond to the heart that was in him, and creep forward through the dark. But his feet knew the road that he took, though his brain was reeling. He was going straight to the one who had wakened the new loyalty in him—his beautiful America!
"I pledge allegiance to my flag and to the republic for which it stands," went surging through him as he struggled on.